


When Midnight Hurts

by CheriiboiPanda



Category: Honey and Fire
Genre: Angst, But Mostly Hurt, Childhood Trauma, Drabble, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Nightmares, Other, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers, Trauma, unedited, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 14:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16557806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheriiboiPanda/pseuds/CheriiboiPanda





	When Midnight Hurts

There's no dreams for someone whose mind turns every little thing into a nightmare, a seed of insanity still planted firmly enough to bloom and twist even innocent moments to rotted black. All it takes is a little flinch, a random knot of unease, a twitch behind an emotionless mask and it's obvious. Which path a rabbit of a thought will follow for the night. He knows it from perceptive implication. What dreams he'll have.

And it is a dream. He knows that. It's a dream. It has to be. It's not reality.

It just used to be, so he gets confused sometimes. He's just confused.

When images of expensive white furniture flicker past his eyes, briefly, a canopy bed, a flash of curled, burgundy hair, the clink of chains attached to white leather cuffs. Every visual and sound loses itself to the void.

A cold black engulfs his vision. A comforting black. An unfeeling, safe black.

And then it all explodes into white. White and gold lining, silks and expensive fabrics, crystals, all polished to perfect, virtually untouched cleanliness, glittering under lights as if to prove their riches, their beauty unbefitting a broken street child. It's terrifying to his unrefined eyes. All gilded glamour, completely material and beyond fragile. It's a setting he knows well and was never comfortable in.

And then hands descend on him.

Wisps of smoke rise from the skin of disembodied, shadowy black hands that grab hold of him. Ever-moving, he can't count them as they grab, crawl, feel, grope. It's his adult body but he feels small. A pair gropes at his flat chest and he feels heat burning the tips of his ears, but his arms are held firmly in place by several grips. He watches his pale skin be marked by the black ash the hands leave behind as they restlessly move about his form, taking hold of wrists, finding thighs, feeling muscles. Hands touch his face, almost gently sliding up and down his cheeks, leading his head back. Intrusive fingers probe past his parted lips, fingerpads touching feral teeth trained not to snap. It tastes like hell on his tongue, ash coats his mouth and he wants to heave, forced them out, but he knows better than that. Waiting serves better than fighting.

He shouldn't be dreaming right now. He should've followed his routine, exhausting his body until it couldn't handle giving him dreams. But he... he wanted to go to bed at the same time as you. He wanted to be with you. He chokes on and swallows the feeling of regret, because more painful than this dream is implying there's any blame on you, for his own actions, his own choices. He chose this. It's just what happens.

Saliva smears across his lips as the fingers withdraw. A ghost of a word follows them out, his voice but not his intention, it just slips out from him being forced back into a role he knows too well.

"Mama..."

His throat closes on the word, disgust settling like a rock in his stomach. He didn't mean it, he tells himself.

As if called- he didn't do it, though- a pair of hands that, though masqueraded by a shade of incorporeal black, are well-manicured and familiar to him slide slowly along the lines of his hips. Thin fingers smear their sooty mess on his skin as they follow the V of his hips down. His chest swells with an involuntary inhale from the feeling he once knew reignited between his legs. Steepled fingers and bent thumbs form a heart around the crotch they cup. A mocking gesture of approval at how big he's grown, he can just tell. Even in his subconscious she always belittles him.

His head's tilted back again, forcing him to stop looking down as black covers his vision. A hand slides down the back of his pants. He whimpers. Hands crawl all over his body like rats, ruining him with scars and ashen memories. He can wash it away but his eyes always see the mess they left on him.

As if just to drive the point home, two hands creep up his chest and take hold of his throat, a powerful grip that instantly cuts off his air supply. He chokes, his muscles tense and the panic triggers his will to _fight._ He pushes forward, mustering every ounce of unnatural strength awarded to him by the Hell of Ira, he starts to loosen himself from their hold. He pulls, claws digging bloody holes into his palm with the effort, a desperate fight for his freedom. His mouth opens in a choked scream.

And then he's awake.

Day's eyes shoot open to a dark ceiling, a violent gasp filling his lungs painfully full.

It's...

It's over?

He can't move for several long moments, only tremble in an imagined cold, trying to catch his breath. Trying.

It takes effort, but he slides your hand off of his chest and sits up, the blanket pooling around his hips. He doesn't look at you, he can't handle that right now. You were- you were touching him and he... he doesn't want to be touched and he doesn't want to associate your face with this feeling of-of being _touched_. He slouches, his head drooping to look down at himself, his pants still in place on his body, his skin though scarred still a winter's pale, untouched by the blackness that suffocated his dream.

He lifts his head, searching the dark corners of the room for any sign of something out of the ordinary. There's nothing, but he still can't breathe. His mouth hangs open involuntarily, as if opening up will allow oxygen to get to him easier but it's not working. He can only manage shallow breaths and while it's keeping his conscious and here, it feels _wrong_ , not enough. His lungs are full of anxiety, his stomach's twisting into unease, his heart pounds with fear. A rushing in his ears deafens him to the world outside of a traumatic mental state.

Day's fingers curl into the blanket and swiftly push it off of him. His feet touch the cold, hard floor and he stands on unsteady legs. His hearing only just now catch up to the scratching at the bedroom door and he pads over, already knowing what to expect. Two big black shapes immediately slip into the room when the door swings open. He looks down at four eyes glinting in the dim light of the moon outside and sighs.

He kind of... doesn't have the energy for this. It's what they do, but he can't let them do it right now. It won't help, he just needs...

Slowly, Day's head turns to look at you, your slumbering form highlighted by moonlight under his gaze. His shoulders slump with the weight of exhaustion and he doesn't even look at his dogs when he points a finger at their beds in the corner of the room. They listen, of course, a gesture they've learned when their master can't be verbal.

Day's legs carry him back to the bed, his eyes glued to your body, sleeping so peacefully he's jealous. Not that you don't have nightmares. But you're not having one right now and he wants that. A lack of nightmares, that is.

He stops, half-poised to climb back in bed when his gaze lands on your hand placed in the center of his spot in the bed, where his chest was. His hair ruffles as he shakes the thought from his head. He needed to calm down from the trigger, it wasn't your touch that was the problem. Any touch would've been too much, even his own on his own body.

Refusing to sabotage his own healing, he slides into the bed anyway. He's still shaken, he still feels something in the most intimate parts of himself, but rather than shy away, he tucks himself into your arms, presses himself against you. Unconsciously, you welcome him the same, throwing an arm over his shoulder while his arms circle your waist, hugging you to him.

He feels like a child, as always, but he doesn't even care. He pushes aside the shame for your comfort. For your protection. For your light in all his darkness.

He doesn't sleep again, but he finds peace for the night, at least.


End file.
